The Last Day (28 page)

No sooner was Feldman's view obscured by passersby than she was gone. But there was absolutely no doubting it. This was no illusion. He had seen her. He had
felt
her.

56

The Papal Quarters, Vatican City, Rome, Italy 7:15
P.M
., Friday, February 11, 2000

N
icholas VI was seated at his ornate desk, signing documents. He looked up as a knock came at the open doors of his chambers.

“Yes, Antonio, enter.” The pope had been expecting his visitor.

Antonio di Concerci, leather-bound attaché case in hand, crossed the threshold and greeted his pope, but without his accustomed smile. Nicholas gestured him to a chair, removed his reading spectacles and turned in the prefect's direction.

“You look particularly thoughtful tonight, Tony,” the pontiff observed good-humoredly.

“And you look well,
Papa.
”

“How is the
inquirendum
coming?”

“On schedule, Holiness. And your deadline will be met without compromising the integrity of our work, I assure you.”

“Excellent. Then you wish to talk with me on another matter, I presume?”

“Yes. I'm struggling with a dilemma, Holy Father. It concerns Cardinal Litti.”

The pope took a long breath, dropping his chin, shaking his head.

“I must speak to you in confidence, Holiness,” di Concerci prefaced his remarks.

Nicholas looked up, his face changing from annoyance to concern. “Of course, Tony.”

“As you know,
Papa,
Cardinal Litti attended that interdenominational Mormon conference last weekend.”

The pope nodded.

“And as you may have noticed, he was behaving rather peculiarly even before he left.”

“Yes,” the pope agreed. “I've been worried about him. He's not been himself of late.”

“I'm afraid he's deteriorated considerably since last you saw him. He came to my office early yesterday morning, unannounced, unshaven, unkempt, and he demanded an audience. When I informed him of a conflicting meeting I had with Cardinals Thompson and Santorini, he became belligerent and insisted that I cancel my meeting and immediately review his findings from the Mormon conference.”

“What did you do?”

“Quite frankly, I felt his state of mind unstable, and rather than provoke him further, I agreed to do as he asked.”

“Did that placate him?”

“He insisted on sitting outside my office while I read the document in its entirety.”

The pontiff's eyes widened and he scratched his chin. “And what was the content of his report?”

Di Concerci leaned back in his chair, his lips compressed, as if hesitant to continue further.

“Speak, Antonio.”

The prefect placed his attaché case on the corner of the pontiff's desk, flipped open the locks and removed a multipage document.

“Holiness, I don't know how else to describe this.” He laid the papers next to his attaché case. “These are the ravings of a delusional fanatic. Litti has gone mad. He's renounced the Church. He recognizes this Jeza woman as the New Messiah and proclaims that our destruction is imminent.”

Nicholas sank back in his chair, stunned. “Alphonse, a millenarian?”

“He demands that the Church recognize Jeza as the New Messiah and that we support her message and mission—assuming anyone can determine precisely what her message or mission might be. And Litti demands that this report be included in the
inquirendum.”

The pope remained slumped in his chair, his chin cupped in his hand, his eyes far away. Almost to himself he said in a voice filled with reminiscence, “This is not Alphonse, you know. I remember so well, many years ago, when I first arrived here as a young, naive graduate from the Pontifical Theological Academy. Alphonse was one of my first friends. He was very carefree and easygoing. Not at all like he is now. I fear for him. I wonder if it could be a stage of early senility.”

Then to di Concerci he added, “I want Alphonse to see a physician immediately. A complete check-up. Will you see to this, Tony?”

“Yes, Holy Father, right away. But what about his report?”

Nicholas exhaled. “Leave it with me. But I can tell you, it will
not
appear in the
inquirendum.”

After di Concerci had left, Nicholas let his troubled thoughts wander for a while until they finally returned to Alphonse Litti's poor misguided effort, lying in forty-odd pages on the edge of the pope's antique desk. In the very spot where once lay the marriage annulment petition from Henry VIII and the manifesto of Martin Luther's Ninety-five Theses.

The pontiff reached over, gathered up the papers, and placed them in a plain envelope he marked “A. Litti.” From his waist chain, he retrieved a large gold key and unlocked the side vault of his desk. Before depositing the envelope inside, the pope hesitated, recognizing within the vault a faded brown-leather portfolio. Then, hurriedly, he tossed in A. Litti's report and shut the door.

57

WNN regional headquarters, Cairo, Egypt 8:30
A.M
., Monday, February 14, 2000

O
ver the weekend there was yet another Jeza sighting by the WNN crews. This proved to be a particularly revealing one. Cissy, who had already reviewed the video Sunday afternoon with Bollinger and Sullivan, had the tape in hand at an editing bay, awaiting Feldman's and Hunter's arrival for preview and development of the day's newscasts.

Hunter slid into the editing room well ahead of Feldman, and braked hard when he spied Cissy sitting cross-legged on the edge of the table. This was the first time the two had been completely alone together since the night of the millennial earthquake. It was too late for Hunter to duck back out again without looking conspicuous and cowardly.

“Hey, Ciss,” he started, “what's happenin’? I hear we got some more hot video footage—”

“I'm still pissed off at you, Hunter!” she hissed, crossing her arms to match her legs.

“Now what for?”

“What for? For punching my date's lights out, that's what for!”

“Your date? Hell, that was no date, Cissy, that was IDF. You know, the good folks who threw Arnie in jail?”

“Schlomo wasn't threatening me, he took me out to dinner, for chrissakes!”

“Schlomo?”
he mocked. “I've got news for you. If you hadn't left with us, in a few more minutes ol’ Schlomo and his pals woulda been tossin’ your freckled butt in the brig! You oughta be thanking me.”

“I don't need you to look out for me,
thank you.
”

“Look Cissy, I know you're still cranked at me over this Erin thing—”

“What!”
she exploded, popping off the table and stomping the ground in a fit. “You big, contemptuous, pompous ass!”

Feldman had arrived outside the door, but he came to an abrupt halt at the sound of elevated voices. He was used to the two of them bickering, but this went well beyond the pale. Unfortunately, Feldman needed access to the room to view the new Jeza tape before he met with Sullivan and Bollinger. He looked at his watch, tapped his toes as the altercation intensified, then retreated back down the hallway a safer distance.

“So,” Hunter attempted a defense, “just because I show you a little attention after the earthquake. I mean, nothing
happened
between us!”

“Nothing happened!”
She was livid. “You hold me tight in your arms, you kiss my face and say all these sweet things to me. You talk about wanting to spend the night with me. And you were just being a good Boy Scout right? You
bastard!

“And hardly an hour or two after you drop me off,” she ranted on, “along comes that Babylonian Bimbo and you go drooling after her like a bull in rut! You're disgusting!”

Feldman found situations such as these extremely distressing. They revived difficult memories of his failed attempts to quell arguments between his parents. Nevertheless, something had to be done, and once again Feldman felt responsible for refereeing two people he loved. He bit his lip, gathered his resolve and forced himself back down the hall toward the escalating volume. Anxious faces peered out at him from office doorways, offering silent support as Feldman passed by. He acknowledged them, grim-faced, and continued on.

Approaching the viewing room once again, he could hear Hunter protesting feebly, but Cissy's enraged voice towered over him.

“You think she's
sexy? Sexy?
What the hell do you think I am,
Mother Teresa!”
she screamed.

Feldman's jaw dropped open. Aghast, he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and mouthed, “Hunter, you
idiot!”

Suddenly there was the sound of glass breaking and a squeal of alarm from Hunter. Feldman feared he'd delayed too long. He scurried around the corner into the room, hoping he was in time to prevent the impending manslaughter. Hunter, cringing in a corner, greeted Feldman with a look of pleading desperation, coffee from a shattered pitcher dripping down the wall behind him. Cissy stood over the imperiled cameraman, the latest Jeza videotape held high and threatening in her hand.

“You goddamn son of a bitch!” Cissy screeched.

Feldman rushed over and wrapped the frenzied woman in his arms, rescuing both Hunter and the precious videotape. The mortified cameraman saw his chance and darted around Cissy like the all-state linebacker he once was, out of the office, down the hall, not to be seen for the rest of the day.

Restraining the enraged, sobbing woman in his arms, Feldman comforted her until she regained some composure. Looking up at him, her mascara running down her flushed, freckled cheeks, her bottom lip thrust out and quivering, she blubbered, “I don't know why I love that lousy bastard, I just do, and I can't help it. I hate myself!”

Feldman felt for Cissy, who'd been a good friend through some amazing times, but he'd rather have been a thousand miles away at this moment. He saw in her the anguished face of his mother, that universal, contorted expression forged by failing love.

“Breck doesn't mean to be so insensitive, Cissy. He's just a clumsy, rough old jock who never learned better. In his heart, I know he thinks the world of you. It was pretty obvious from the way he decked that soldier the other night. But maybe you two just aren't meant to be, you know?”

She grimaced in pain and despair, shuddered through another paroxysm, then finally composed herself again. “Yeah, I know, I know. It's just going to take me a little time, that's all. I'll deal with it.”

“I know you will, Ciss. Come on now, let me drive you home. You take the rest of the day off and things will look a whole lot better tomorrow. You'll see.”

“No,” she said, “you've got a meeting with Sullivan. I'm okay now, really. I'm going to step into the ladies’ room for a minute and then I'll drive myself home. You go on. I'm okay. Really.”

Feldman was unconvinced, and wouldn't leave until he could coax a smile from her. Laughing and crying at the same time, she finally delivered.

“Go on, get out of here,” he commanded. “I'll call you later to check up, okay?”

“Thanks, Jon,” she said in a calmer voice. “You've always been good to me.” She grabbed his hands in hers, stood on tiptoes, kissed Feldman's cheek, and left.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Feldman headed to the coffee machine, signaling an all-clear to the alarmed and concerned along the way. As he passed through the atrium, he paused long enough to watch Cissy hustling out to her car. She drove off quickly, but not recklessly, he noticed with relief.

Settling in with his filled coffee mug at the editing bay, Feldman called Sullivan to let him know he was ready for their meeting.

“Quite a row, eh what?” Sullivan understated. “She'll be all right, I trust?”

“I think so, Nigel,” Feldman surmised. “Cissy's pretty tough. She just needs some time to regroup. I'll check in on her later and make sure.”

“I say, I had no idea there was a difficulty there. I mean they banter back and forth so, but I never thought there was any animosity behind it. Whatever time she needs, of course. And what about Breck?”

Feldman let out with a short, ironic laugh. “Hell, he's probably off playing video games somewhere, totally forgotten it all by now. Breck's not real deep about things like this, I'm afraid.”

“Very well. And you?”

“I'm fine, Nigel. How about we get rolling on this new video?”

As the others arrived, Feldman furtively observed Erin Cross to see if he could detect any reactions to the morning's events, but she seemed totally indifferent to the situation.

Before they began, Bollinger gave Feldman the background on the tape they were about to view. “This footage was taken Saturday morning, Jon, downtown at the Al-Azhar University campus. We got a call about nine-thirty that Jeza was on the grounds near the Student Union Center. By the time we got there, a professor had come across her and invited her into an auditorium to address a class.

“Our crew was able to squeeze in and set up in the back of the hall while she was preoccupied answering questions. You're going to find this interesting. It's one of her lengthier exchanges ever.”

The video opened with Jeza standing behind an elevated podium at the bottom of a large, darkened, bowl-shaped auditorium. The Messiah was dressed in a long, simple, white cotton robe, trimmed in a red and purple band on the sleeves and hem. Illuminated in soft overhead lights, speaking comfortably into the microphone in front of her, she held the audience in rapt attention.

The class professor, a swarthy, animated bearded man with dark, liquid eyes and a turban, was the only other person on the stage with the Messiah. He appeared to be moderating the symposium, selecting the questioners from the audience.

The videotape picked up on a question posed by a tall, thin, middle-aged clergyman in a dark cassock. “Jeza, pardon me,” he said in a polite tone, “but your teachings seem to contradict many tenets of the Holy Bible. Are you above the Bible?”

“Where I am,” she responded in that commanding, yet soft, soothing voice of hers, “is by the hand and will of God. I bring you His Word as His begotten messenger.”